


Dream of Me

by Katie_Dazuru



Category: Super Mario & Related Fandoms, Super Paper Mario (Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Swearing, i guess??, there's Google-translated Italian in ch3 so I apologise for any mistakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15451812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie_Dazuru/pseuds/Katie_Dazuru
Summary: When Mr. L sleeps, he dreams of a man in red.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly change fandoms so much it's not even funny

He’s still snickering to himself as he retreats to his own quarters within Castle Bleck. Mr. L lifts his hand to wipe away a fake tear, not that anyone would be around to see it, and snickers once more, muttering “junior minions” with substantial mirth. Their faces had been too much, the shock and anger in their expressions simply too amusing to ignore, and Mr. L had happily taken advantage of that. Sure, that wouldn’t exactly get him on their good side, but what does he care? After this entire thing with the Void, he doubts he’ll ever see them again.

Shutting his door behind him with a firm shove and locking it behind him, Mr. L flops forward onto his bed. He lets out a disgruntled sound, and then flips onto his back, simultaneously removing his cap to place it on the bedside table next to him. He crosses his arms over his chest; there’s no point in getting undressed anyway – it’s not like he has any other clothes and now that he’s lying down he doesn’t particularly feel like getting up again.

Mr. L closes his eyes, relaxes his shoulders, and lets out a sigh. A moment later, his arms flop to his sides. He feels strangely exhausted, but he doesn’t have any clear memories of overexerting himself that day…

“Haven’t I told you it’s bad for your back to fall asleep like that?”

His eyes snap open, but instead of the sight of the ceiling, he finds himself hunched over a desk. He has a moment to wonder what in the _fresh hell_ is going on, and then something – or some _one_ , even – leans over and shadows his vision. It’s a young man dressed in red, with bright blue eyes, and Mr. L blinks. The man’s hands are on his hips, his body language showing that he isn’t very impressed with Mr. L, but there’s a small smile on his face, partially obscured by a moustache.

“Come on.” The man holds out a hand. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he responds without much thought, and recoils at the whining tone in his voice. _What the hell?_

The man laughs, and then moves to help Mr. L to his feet. “I’m just making sure,” the man says, brushing off his prior remark without much difficulty, and then tugs at Mr. L’s arm.

He frowns to himself when his body responds without him wanting it to, and he finds himself following this man for no reason whatsoever. Who does this guy think he is, dragging around the _Green Thunder_? But it gives him ample time to study his surroundings, which is…some sort of study? On a board close to the door he’s being led to, he can see multiple schematics of machines pinned up. Studying them closer, he can clearly tell they’re not weapons. What the fuck?

The man looks back at him again, and chuckles. “Come on. You can continue your work tomorrow,” Mr. L opens his mouth to interject, “ _after_ a good night of sleep. Sometimes you’re worse than me, bro.”

_Bro?!_

He wants to wrench his arm out of this man’s grasp, to yell, to ask what the _fuck is going on_ , but his body won’t respond. It feels like he’s a spectator in his own body.

The man leads him through the open doorway, and Mr. L trips on nothing, careening through air into the light, shielding his face from the impact-

And then suddenly he’s sitting up in bed.

Mr. L blinks. He looks down at himself, and then left and right. He’s back in Castle Bleck.

He sighs, and that’s when the door opens (hadn’t he locked that?). Nastasia stands there, informs him of a meeting in the next few minutes, and she leaves. Mr. L stares at the door for a few moments longer, and then twists his body and gets to his feet. He reaches blindly for his hat and places it on its proper place upon his head, shifting around with it for a moment to make sure it’s straight, and makes his way towards the door. That dream, or hallucination, or whatever shit that had been, had been just that: a dream. It wasn’t real. That man was clearly some weird figment of his imagination. He was nothing.

And as Mr. L treks through the halls of Castle Bleck, he tries to ignore the warm, phantom grip that he can still feel on his arm.


	2. Chapter 2

It happens again when he dozes off in his workshop, putting the finishing touches on his prototype. He’s messing around with the inner wiring, just to be safe, because it’d be a hell of a mood-killer if it were to spontaneously combust in the middle of a battle with the so-called “Heroes of the Light Prognosticus”. He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been working, so it comes as a rather unwelcome shock when he sits down for a brief moment and closes his eyes, only for them to snap open again as he feels something brush against his forehead.

He’s lying down this time, blinking up a mattress above him. Mr. L looks from side to side, wincing as he turns and finds himself blinded by daylight. He groans, lifting a hand to block it, but it’s grabbed before it even makes it halfway to his face.

“Stop moving.”

Something exceedingly cold is put on his forehead, and he jerks. He turns his head slightly and swallows, wincing as he feels what seems to be a phantom ache – like he has a sore throat…but he doesn’t. There’s a shuffle of movement just out of his line of sight, and the mattress suddenly bend beneath a new weight as someone settles down on the bed next to him, effectively blocking out some of the sunlight. Mr. L stares at them for all of two seconds, and immediately recognises the red garments, the moustache, and the bright blue eyes. Said eyes are actually _staring_ at him, and he shuffles in mild discomfort.

The man frowns at that, reaching out to press the back of his hand against Mr. L’s cheek. He wants to lash out, to smack that hand away, but the man merely tuts and pulls away again. His brows are drawn together in concern.

“You’re burning up,” the man mutters, fumbling around for a moment, and then chuckles lightly. “Man, I stink at this nursing stuff, bro. You always were better than me.”

_Nursing?!_ Mr. L did not and would never _nurse_ anyone. He narrows his eyes at the man, trying to burn the face into his memory for when he woke up – he wouldn’t tolerate anyone treating the Green Thunder like some sort of child. If this man truly did exist, Mr. L would hunt him down and make him pay.

But his vision continuously shifts. No matter how he tries, he can’t gain a clear image of the man sitting right in front of him. Before, it had been dark, so he hadn’t paid it much attention, but the man is sitting less than a metre away in broad daylight and Mr. L…can’t see him clearly. He can only see what he already knew: the red, the moustache and the eyes. Focusing a bit more, he registers that the man has brown hair, a shade startlingly close to his own, but that’s the only new thing he can make out.

The man looks at him for a brief moment more, before clicking his tongue and getting to his feet. “Hold tight, bro, I’m going to get you some more ice.”

His body moves by itself, arm shooting out and grabbing the man’s wrist before he moves out of reach. Mr. L tries to let go, but he’s still only just a spectator, and the man smiles warmly down at him. It…soothes him in a way he’s unfamiliar with, and his grip relents.

“Don’t worry, bro,” the man reaches over to ruffle his hair. He scrunches his nose. “I won’t be more than a minute, okay?”

Mr. L watches as he makes his way towards the door. The man looks back at him momentarily, and then shuts the door behind him. It slams loud, and his entire body jerks.

He’s back in his workshop. Mr. L blinks a few times, rather disorientated, before shaking his head. He hurries to his feet and brushes himself off, startled at how easily he’d nodded off. He quickly makes his way back over to his work, pulling open one of the panels again to resume fiddling with the inner circuitry.

He clenches his jaw. One time had been more than enough, but two? If these weird-ass dreams were going to be a reoccurring nuisance, he may as well stop trying to sleep at all. He’s not even sure _why_ it’s happening, either. It’s come out of nowhere, but both time have revolved around the same man…who he seems to be familiar with in his dreams. _And_ he seems strangely hellbent on calling Mr. L “bro” for whatever reason – which probably confuses him the most. He doesn’t have a brother. He doesn’t remember ever having one.

Hell, his _robot_ was more of a brother to him that this figment was. At least his robot was _real_.

Mr. L pauses for a second, looking up at his creation. “Robot” is mediocre at best as a name, but… _Brobot?_ That has a better ring to it, he thinks, and smirks. Yeah. Brobot.

He backs away from his creation, putting his hands on his hips as he admires his own work. Prototype or not, he has to admit that Brobot looks pretty fucking impressive.

“Heh,” he chuckles, and smirks darkly. “Those _heroes_ won’t know what hit them.”

He doesn’t need some figment to look after him. He can look after himself perfectly fine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a bit of Italian at the end, but I used Google Translate so it could be wrong lmao

How did these heroes expect to even _try_ and stop the Count if they moved at a snail’s pace?

Mr. L exhales heavily, tapping his foot impatiently as he thumps his head back against the wall. He’s been waiting for what honestly feels like _hours_ for the so-called heroes to show their mugs, but he’s yet to see anything. Maybe they had given up.

He fidgets, and then starts as the doors open. He watches as some deformed, weird, alien-looking creature scuttles into the room, muttering to itself in third-person. It’s followed a few minutes later by three others, two human like Mr. L himself and the other a ferocious-looking monster. Mr. L raises a brow, watching as the group make their way into the room.

“ _SQUAAAAAAAACKLES!_ ” the alien screeches, and Mr. L winces as he wrinkles his nose in distain. “Squirps was tired of waiting! Squirps almost gave up! The Pure Heart that you’re looking for is just ahead, space grunts!”

One of the humans in the group, a fair-haired young woman, claps her hands together. “Oh, good! I was afraid we’d never get here!”

The monster grumbles something, and Mr. L looks on in amusement as it stomps towards the door at the other end of the room with a look of annoyance.

“Oh, Bowser, don’t be like that!” the woman calls out, following, and Mr. L stands up straight.

 _So these are the heroes? I expected something more than this…_ He muses to himself, but shrugs. Appearances aside, they’re still a threat to the Count, and a threat to the Count is a threat to Mr. L.

“Squirps. You’ve done well. You’re a smart kid…” he says, watching in amusement at the startled expressions that flash across the monster’s and the woman’s face, before focusing back on the creature below him.

“ _Squirple squeee!_ ” it says, laughing. “Stop it! Squirps is embarrassed!”

There’s a pause, a brief moment of silence, and Mr. L can’t help but stifle a snicker. The alien’s face quickly transforms from happiness to confusion, and it looks around briefly.

“Wait…whose voice was that, squoh?”

Mr. L smiles and jumps. He lands dead-on-target, bouncing off the alien’s head and landing cleanly on the ground. The alien lets out a cry of pain, and Mr. L laughs as he gets to his feet.

“What’s going on?!” Mr. L turns to look over his shoulder, realising the presence of a rainbow butterfly hovering above the shoulder of the third hero. “Wh-who are you?!”

He laughs at that. He laughs at the trembling uncertainty in that voice, and he feels powerful. His gaze flickers from the butterfly to the third hero, who he can see is a young man garbed in red. He frowns briefly for a moment at that, that particular fact striking a chord in him, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears.

The man in red mutters something under his breath, and then tilts his head to address his fellow heroes at the other end of the room. “Princess! Bowser! Go on ahead! I’ll deal with this.”

Mr. L scoff at the third hero’s sheer _audacity_.

“You shouldn’t take me so lightly, _hero_ ,” he says, stressing that last word mockingly, and hears the door shut behind him as the other two heroes leave. “I’m one of Count Bleck’s more promising minions: the Green Thunder.”

“The Green Thunder?” the butterfly repeats, and Mr. L doesn’t like the unimpressed tone in that voice.

“Though I guess you could call me Mr. L,” he says with a smirk, and his attention suddenly snaps back to the hero as the man in red’s shoulders abruptly rise and freeze. The upper part of the man’s face is obscured by a red cap emblazoned with the letter “M”, similar to Mr. L’s own green one, but he can still partially see the way that the man’s lips set into a firm line from beneath a moustache. The details resonate again, making him pause momentarily, but again he brushes it off as nothing.

“Mr…L?” the butterfly repeats, a hint of confusion in its gentle tone.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves it off. “I don’t need you to tell me it’s a cool name. I know it. Don’t bother memorising it.”

“Mr. L…” It’s the hero who speaks this time, and Mr. L decides he doesn’t like that questioning and accusing tone he can faintly hear in that voice. In fact, the hero seems almost unsure of whether or not he wants to fight, and Mr. L smirks. Well, that makes his job easier, at least.

“Just because you’re red doesn’t mean you’re strong,” he mocks, grins, and then leaps. “ _Have at you!_ ”

* * *

He’s beaten so effortlessly it’s embarrassing. Mr. L slams to the ground with a grunt, but forces himself to his feet. It’s not over yet, after all. He still has his trump card. He sways on his feet, clutching his arm as it throbs, but he doesn’t miss the way the man in red seems to hesitantly reach out as if to touch him. Of course, a pointed glare from Mr. L himself has the hero’s arm receding again. He’s not a _child_.

“Impressive,” he grunts out, and smiles. “I guess there’s but one thing to do, hm?” Mr. L stands up straight, and throws out his arms as he yells: “ _COME TO ME, METAL BRO!_ ”

Brobot careens through the wall, and Mr. L watches with satisfaction as the hero leaps backwards to avoid being crushed like an insignificant, little bug. He laughs, and immediately climbs inside. Settling down at the helm of his creation feels soothing, and Mr. L glares through the window. He can see the hero’s gape, and he cackles.

“Do you like him?! This is my _dear_ metal brother, Brobot. He and I share a spiritual bond, you know.” He watches as white-gloved hands clench into fists, and as the hero grits his teeth visibly. It seems like the man in red _really_ doesn’t want to fight him, but Mr. L can’t think for the life of him as to why. “Enough playing around! Now it’s time for _pain!_ ”

He sends Brobot crashing up through the ceiling, up into the black vastness of space. He watches through the tear as the man in red comes soaring out into space, obviously having been sucked out along with the air, but Mr. L huffs when he notices the clear bowl around the man’s head. The man flies out past him for a few seconds, before there’s a blur of green and Mr. L curses as the annoying alien allows the hero grasp onto it and pulls the man back towards Brobot.

Mr. L glowers. He’d hoped that possibly space would have finished the hero off, but it seems like he was going to do the honours himself. At least he wouldn’t be susceptible to anymore jumping, he muses, rubbing his aching head with a frown.

“Mr. L!” the man calls out. “You need to listen to me-”

He laughs loudly, drowning the man in red out. Whatever thing this hero wants to say is unimportant to him. “The gravitational laws of space allow Brobot’s potential to be fully realised!” He stands up slightly to level the hero with a chilling grin. “Hey, Mr. Jumpsallthetime! _Now_ we’ll see who’s the better jumper!”

And he unleashes hell.

Missiles, vacuuming up the hero and crunching him with Brobot, Mr. L lets it all go. However, Brobot shakes as the man in red and his alien companion manage to land solid hits of hot, red light against the exterior, and Mr. L mutters to himself as he urges himself to fight harder, _faster, destroy, destroy-_

**_Stop it!_ **

A sudden, screaming voice in the back of his mind freezes his entire body. Mr. L only lets out a panicked gasp as the hero takes full advantage of the pause and decimates Brobot. He grits his teeth, his ears ringing with explosions and that _fucking scream_ , as Brobot falls, the gravity of the Whoa Zone taking hold and sucking him back down inside, the hero following, and he watches as the tear repairs itself ( _damn space magic_ ) and closes his eyes tightly as he forcefully ejects.

Mr. L hits the ground with a cry of pain, and can only watch as Brobot – _his precious metal brother –_ explodes completely, reducing it to molten slag and junk. The man in red lands solidly across the room from him, chest heaving, and Mr. L wants to punch him right in his _stupid fucking face_.

“Y…you beat Brobot?” His voice is too weak, much too weak for someone as _powerful_ as him, and Mr. L hates it. Hates how this stupid little hero can make him feel so weak and beaten.

“Mr. L…” the man in red speaks, his voice striking a chord, but Mr. L is too overcome by grief for that. This was _supposed to be his shining hour_. What could have possibly gone wrong?! “Mr. L, please, listen to me!”

“I don’t _have_ to listen to the likes of you,” is his response, in a low, cold tone. He struggles to his feet, his body aching _everywhere_ , and he can’t muffle the grunt of pain. That seems to make the hero take a step forward, and Mr. L wonders _what the fuck is the deal with this guy?_ “I’ll let you off the hook for today, I suppose… But remember this, _hero_ ,” he injects so much venom into that title that the man in red winces noticeably, recoiling back. “When Fortune smiles next, she’ll smile right _here!_ On _Mr. L_!”

And he leaps away, not letting that stupid man in red get a word in to stop him.

* * *

He feels like _shit_ ; there’s no other way to say that. His body aches fucking _everywhere_ , and he’s lost Brobot. Everything’s wrong, and it’s _all that hero’s fault_. He takes off his cap and throws it at the wall – it collides with a muted _thump_ and lands in the space between his pillow and top of the bed. The action itself causes a sharp burst of pain to shoot up his arm, and Mr. L winces as he cradles it closer to his chest.

He makes his way over to said bed, shoes shuffling against the floor noisily, and then carefully sits down. It hurts, and he winces again.

For how much the man in red didn’t want to fight, he sure gave Mr. L a beatdown he wouldn’t forget anytime soon. He huffs loudly, muttering to himself under his breath. He hadn’t seen the Count or the others yet, but news of his failure would no doubt reach them soon when they heard that the heroes had acquired another Pure Heart.

As cautiously as he can, Mr. L tries to lie back, and he gets about halfway down before the angle causes a burst of pain all the way down his back. He grits his teeth, trying as he can to try not to scream and curse, and just falls back. It throbs agonisingly for all but a few seconds, before it’s back to the muted ache he can feel all over his body.

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” he mutters venomously. He’s going to feel this shit for weeks.

He tries to relax, wondering that if he does then maybe the pain will just melt away, and when that doesn’t work, closes his eyes. Honestly, maybe a little rest would help somehow, not matter how annoyingly confusing his dream-hallucinations could get. Mr. L fidgets for a moment.

“ _BRO!_ ”

He’s – appropriately – startled by a deafeningly loud, echoing yell. His eyes snap open, and- oh yes, he’s hallucinating again. Mr. L squints immediately, throwing up a hand to block out the sun overhead, and then turns to his right. It occurs to him briefly that his body appears to be doing what he wants it to this time, but he’s not certain if it’s going to last.

He blinks blearily out at – what he belatedly realises to be – a baseball field. Another thing he notices it the smooth, green baseball bat clutched in his hand. There’s a burst of laughter from not too far away from him, and Mr. L looks up just in time to see a blur of red before it collides with him, sending both him and his attacker to the ground.

He’s pleased enough to realise that it doesn’t hurt, but he can feel the phantom stickiness of sweat, and it’s highly unpleasant. That doesn’t seem to deter his attacker in the slightest, and it occurs to him that he’s being _hugged_. He grunts, pushing himself up, and his attacker moves back to rest on their knees. Mr. L blinks at them for a moment, and then see the blue eyes and it clicks. He forgets _every single time_ , but it’s the man again; his imaginary… _brother_ , or whatever.

“You did it, bro!” the man laughs, his voice bright, and Mr. L can hear the pride in those words. This man is proud of him…and it makes Mr. L feel happy? “That was so cool!”

“I…just hit the ball.” His mouth forms the words, and _great_. He’s back to being a spectator again.

The man huffs out a laugh, reaching out to grab Mr. L’s arm and pull him to his feet. There’s mud smeared all the way down the back of his legs, and probably all over his back too, and Mr. L would probably sneer in disgust if he was in control of his body right now.

“Bro, you _hit a home run!_ _You won!_ ” The man makes what appears to be useless gestures with his hands as they flap all over the place. He then proceeds to shake his head as he laughs almost breathlessly, and Mr. L finds himself being crushed in a firm, strong hug. He raises his arms to push him away, momentarily surprised as his body actually responds, but he stops short as the next words reach his ears. “God, _sono così orgoglioso di te, fratello_.”

Mr. L jerks awake. He’s back in his room, his body still aches, and his heart is thumping in his chest. He blinks up at the ceiling, silent, as his mind rushes faster and _faster_. He…what the fuck? That hadn’t been English, that had been something else, but…Mr. L had understood every single word. _I’m so proud of you._

His breath shudders. _What the fuck._


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. L trudges back to his workshop, a pit of disappointment threatening to swallow him. Getting reprimanded by the Count was never going to be pleasant, but he’d always been confident that he’d never have to endure such a thing. Nastasia had been at the Count’s side, shifting her glasses every so often that it had sent a mild feeling of panic to form in his gut, like it was something he was afraid of, but he wasn’t sure why.

It hadn’t taken long for them to find out about his failure – in fact, they’d found out a lot faster than he had anticipated. But then again, another Pure Heart was a _huge_ step closer to those heroes defying the Dark Prognosticus. Mr. L huffs, opening the door to his workshop more violently than necessary, and kicks it shut behind him. The actions themselves relight the dull ache of bruising on his body, though Mr. L barely pays that any mind as he takes off and drops his hat on the far end of the work bench.

He puts his hands on his hips and studies the husk taking up almost the entire other side of the room. The hero in red had destroyed his metal brother, that was true, but Mr. L was not one to take that lying down. He’d been distraught at the loss, had remained melancholy and oddly silent as the fact that Brobot had been beaten sunk in ( _“How? **How?!** I could have stopped him!_”), before finally getting a hold of himself and deciding that he would remake Brobot to be better, faster, and to make it the ultimate weapon of destruction against those pitiful heroes.

The entire process will take time, he realises tiredly, but Mr. L shakes his head. He’d built Brobot once before, and he _would_ do it again. The _hero_ in red had taken his dear metal brother from him, and he would _make him pay_.

And so Mr. L gets to work.

He loses track of how long he spends in his workshop, exactly, and he can’t remember if anyone came to visit him or not, but when he looks back up at the shabby clock hanging above the door, he can see he’s been in there for more than just a _few_ hours. Mr. L blinks at the clock stupidly for a moment, before muttering under his breath and removing a glove to wipe at his forehead. The action itself causes a dull ache to shoot up his arm, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s because he’s so stiff or the bruising from his last encounter with the heroes.

He clambers to his feet, taking a couple of steps back to look at how his handiwork is coming along, and nods in approval. Mr. L wipes at his face, and then makes a face when he feels the sensation of grease being smudged across his cheek. _Gross_.

And then the door to his workshop opens. He glances over in distain, because a personal visit to interrupt his workshop-time is the sign of another _meeting_. Nastasia’s glasses look back at him, and he scowls as he slips his glove back on, simultaneously turning to face her.

She shifts her glasses once more, and Mr. L tries to not let the discomfort in his stomach show on his face at the action (something about that movement is really, really bad and he can’t seem to place it…), and Nastasia regards her clipboard with a flat expression.

“Team meeting in the main hall, ‘kay? Don’t be late.”

And then as suddenly as she’d appeared, she’s gone. Mr. L sighs, letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, and turns back to his newest piece of work. He cracks his stiff knuckles and makes his way over to the workbench, searching for something to wipe his face with. When he comes up empty, he decides _it doesn’t matter, I’m gonna be coming back here anyway_ , and leaves the safe confines of his personal workspace.

He’s still the last one to arrive, though he does have fun sneering at the junior minions (that still makes him crack up) as they give him glares of distain. He flops down in his assigned seat, leaning back and crossing his arms as Nastasia steps forward and the meeting begins. When the first words leave her mouth, he sighs tiredly, knowing that this isn’t some important meeting – it’s more of a status update, something he, the great Green Thunder, can afford to sleep through.

And he does so, tapping on the brim of his hat briefly so it shadows his eyes, and closes them as he sinks a little bit further into his chair. His sleeping patterns have never been routine, so he naps whenever he can, and if he starts dreaming about baseball or being sick in bed, like he’s in the body of another person, he’s learnt to take it in stride. He’d had a brief couple of nights where he and the weird man in red had been trapped in this disgustingly squishy place and another when he’d found himself under some sort of kart.

He’s learnt to expect almost anything when it comes to sleeping, so when he opens his eyes and finds himself standing in some dirty room with something relatively heavy resting on his back, he can’t bring himself to be that surprised anymore. There’s a breathy chuckle to his right, and he turns, his leg smacking into something that he’s got tucked under his arm at the movement, and he stops.

Mr. L frowns, meeting what he supposes to be the gaze of a short, elderly man in a lab coat. The old man’s eyes are obscured by swirled glasses, and he watches the wispy-haired man turn to walk further into the room. When Mr. L doesn’t follow, he turns back with a toothy grin.

“Come along, sonny. You didn’t trek through that mansion just for those ghosts, did ya?” The man chortles, and then motions to the complicated machine behind him. “Now put your brother’s portrait on the end and we can put an end to all this trouble.”

“Ah, right!” His body responds lightly, and it scrambles over to the end of the machine, and places the – apparent – picture frame previously tucked under his arm into the grip.

He takes a few steps back and studies the portrait – Mr. L hadn’t thought to look at it a moment ago, but now he can clearly see the picture of the man in red tiredly slumped, and the cackle from the old man is the only warning he gets before the machine starts up with a massive rumble.

The painting moves, forcefully moved back through the contraptions that make the machine up, and Mr. L hesitates at the sound of pained hollering. He narrows his eyes as the picture frame comes out empty and the tank beside it suddenly roars to life. There’s a few sounds of something hitting metal, and more howling as something is forcefully shoved back through the pipe at the top, and it lands with a resounding thud in the container at the other end of the machine.

Mr. L’s body moves, crouching down in front of the grate that serves as the only entrance and exit that he can see from the container, and his mouth opens. The first word that comes out is a timid and unsure “hello”, and if he could, Mr. L would slap himself. How _dare_ he sound so weak.

But it doesn’t stop there. His body moves, a hand reaching out to tentatively brush against the grate, and his mouth shapes around a name. A _name_ that resonates so strongly with something in him that Mr. L freezes. It’s so achingly familiar but it’s so unfamiliar at the same time.

“ _…Mario…?_ ”

He doesn’t know anyone called that. He’s never known anyone called that. But his head throbs, and Mr. L squints his eyes as a lump solidifies in his throat, and swallowing is suddenly much, much more uncomfortable than it was before.

And then, before his train of thought can continue any further, the grate rumbles beneath his fingertips, and then something red and warm catapults through the smallish space, knocking Mr. L back with a pained grunt, and it lands halfway across the room, the sound of metal scraping against the floor highly unpleasant, and Mr. L mutters a few choice words under his breath, so lowly that they may not have been audible at all, and rubs at the back of his head as he looks over.

There are a few confused and desperate sounds from across the room, and then something flops into sight. It’s the man in red, the one Mr. L continues to see in his dreams, and Mr. L snorts at the bewildered and disorientated expression on his face. An uncomfortable whine escapes the man as he tries to sit up, and then Mr. L catches sight of the grate, trapped around the man in red’s _neck_ , and he breaks down into laughter, so hard that tears start to stream down his face, and-

Wait. That’s not him. He wouldn’t ever cry, not even out of laughter. This _isn’t him_.

His feet move without any thought whatsoever, and he falls to his knees at the man in red’s side. Confused blue eyes blink up at him, and Mr. L can feel himself smiling brightly through the tears. What the _fuck. Stop. Stop it._

“Hey,” the man in red says, lips upturned into a slight smile under his moustache, and Mr. L’s body moves.

He hugs him. His body _hugs_ the man in red so tightly Mr. L can faintly hear him choke slightly, but his grip doesn’t relent…and he feels a strange sense of satisfaction at that. He’s sobbing again, and he can feel the sensation of relief flowing through his body.

And then he says _it_ again.

“M- _Mario!_ ”

“L!”

He jerks, eyes snapping open as he’s shocked into consciousness. He blinks rapidly to clear his fuzzy vision, and he turns to see Nastasia fixing him with an unimpressed stare.

“The meeting had been adjourned,” she says, her tone annoyed, and Mr. L immediately scrambles to his feet. An annoyed Nastasia is a _dangerous_ Nastasia, and he’s not going to mess with that. He’s not entirely sure if she knew just _how long_ he’d been asleep, but he doesn’t want to find out.

He quickly makes his way back to his workshop, heart pounding in his chest, but…suddenly, it’s not because of Nastasia. It’s not the thought of possible repercussions that he could face from falling asleep during another meeting, no matter how useless he thought it was. It’s not even from the thought that he may have upset the Count again.

Mr. L comes to a stop at his workshop door. He raises a hand to grab the handle, and it's then that he can see he's trembling – very, very badly. There's so many things to address with what he'd just experienced. He'd thought he would stop reacting like this - it's not like it's his own life that he's reliving through his dreams. It's some fucked-up hallucination or  _something_ , and Mr. L doesn't understand what the hell it's all supposed to mean.

Who the hell had that old man been? Why had he been at a mansion full of ghosts?

Who…who the fuck was  _Mario?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughly 9 months later... an update!! I'm sorry! University work and writer's block is a hell of a combination to be fair  
> One chapter left!! I think. Considering that's how far I planned to write haha  
> Thanks for waiting! I promise I'll try to update in less than 9 months this time around


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